


These Hearts Adore

by Emily Waters (missparker)



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/F, Meet-Cute, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 11:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13833588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/Emily%20Waters
Summary: A social worker helps her put some things into a black trash bag and takes her away.





	These Hearts Adore

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know I'm on tumblr? Come say hi @[missparker](http://missparker.tumblr.com).

_Touch my neck and I'll touch yours_  
_You in those little high waisted shorts_

**Sweater Weather -[Kina Grannis (cover)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nYsM9sTqxo)**

*

It feels like it happens overnight. She goes to bed chubby, wakes up curvy. 

She’s not the only one who notices that she’s shed her childhood like an ill-fitting skin. Trixie’s hourglass figure earns her contempt from her mother and more interest from her step-dad than he’s ever shown her before. It makes the little hairs on her arms and neck stand up straight, the way he watches her now. When she’s cleaning the dishes or mopping the floor or making lunches for the little ones, if there’s food. 

“You can’t wear that,” her mom says about a dress she’s worn, literally, one hundred times before. “You look like a whore.” 

Where is she supposed to put these boobs, by the way? No one else in her family is quite so well endowed. And she doesn’t think she’s wearing the right kind of underwear anymore. Her beginner bras are too small, way too small and she spills out of every side, but it’s all she has. So she wears it even though it leaves angry red marks in her skin. She wears as many t-shirts as she can manage over that, tries not to take her sweater off at school.

Eventually, her mom comes home with a single bra for her. Beige and huge, like it’s made for an old lady. It’s not a perfect fit, but god, it’s better. 

Her step-dad asks her to model it for them.

“Come on Trixie-girl, give ‘em a shake. Show us what your mama gave ya,” he says in a weird accent that doesn’t suit him. 

“Shut up, Ron,” her mom says. 

Her mom doesn’t usually step in like that. Trixie knows it’s not because her mom wants to protect Trixie, but because she’s jealous of the attention her daughter is getting. Trixie leaves during the ensuing screaming match; in the morning, her mom is covered in bruises.

Trixie is fourteen when her step-dad hits her for the first time, grabbing her by the hair and smashing her face into the wall. It’s why she starts wearing makeup, actually. She doesn’t have any money for makeup, but one of her friends goes with her to the drug store to buy ice cream from the counter and while they’re there, she slips a foundation into her pocket. She watches videos on the internet in the library with no sound of beautiful girls doing their own makeup and figures out some technique, the other products she’ll have to steal. 

By fifteen, bruises are easy to cover. It’s the swelling that gives her away, or when he’s drunk and his punches go wild and he hits her so hard her eye bursts a blood vessel. 

Lots of kids get beatings. It’s not until he starts coming into her room at night that she finally tells someone. Her counselor at school. When she gets home that afternoon, there’s a police car in front of her house. Her step-dad is gone, her mom and the little kids are in the backyard and her mom won’t look at her or talk to her.

A social worker helps her put some things into a black trash bag and takes her away.

oooo

She gets kicked out of the system at eighteen, which is fine by her. She’s smart and responsible and can hold a job. She’s been saving money for two years and she spends the largest chunk she’s ever spent at once on a bus ticket. She’s got to get the fuck out of Wisconsin. 

It’d be cheaper to go east, there’s so many big cities that way, but she wants to go somewhere warm so she spends extra and goes to California. 

oooo

She dyes her dishwater hair bright blonde for a job. It’s not a requirement, exactly, but she has eyes, she can see that every waitress there is a blonde haired, blue eyed California dream girl. She can’t do anything about her eyes, but she can go blonde without too much fuss and the restaurant is _so close_ to where she rents her room, it would be so amazing to be able to roll out of bed and walk to work. Plus it’s right on the edge of the nicer part of town and gentrification has been creeping toward her shitty neighborhood so it’s full of hipsters and people who actually have money. 

She applied last month and they never called her back. This time, she spends time curling her new blonde hair and teasing it up into a ponytail. She wings out her black eyeliner, paints on a pink lipstick, over drawing her lips slightly to give herself an artificial pout. 

“I can be Malibu Barbie,” she says to her reflection. She’s determined. She works at a coffee shop in the early mornings, but she hates her night job. She’s gotta make this work. At least if this job sucks, it’s right down the street. She rubs pink off her tooth and then nods at her reflection. “Let’s do this.” 

She bats her eyelashes when she asks for an application, giggles when the owner asks a little about her experience. She doesn’t even have to fill out the application in the end. Just some hiring paperwork. He gives her an apron, tells her to come in Friday for a training shift and that he’ll put her on the schedule for next week. 

Trixie decides she’s gonna stay this blonde forever.

oooo

At least it’s not a Starbucks. This building used to be a factory and has been converted into a small group of retail spaces. Now she has two gentified jobs, but this one she had first. It’s called Haus of Bean and she thinks that’s… real stupid. But she can wear whatever she wants and the aprons are brown so they hide all manner of sins. They don’t care if she wears makeup or has earrings on or paints her nails neon pink. The owner is actually kind of cool? Her name is Raja and she’d hired Trixie because she was desperate for help and Trixie thinks at first Raja didn’t really like her midwestern accent or the fact that she was so young, but she’s been here six months now and she’s settled in. Raja gives her four days a week on the schedule which is great in barista world. 

Trixie is objectively the best at foam art, too. 

She arrives at 4:30 am and is the first one. Her other opener will show up at 5:00 - she glances at the schedule and rolls her eyes. It’s Gia. Gia is nice enough but she’s dumb as a post and she thinks she and Trixie are friends because they’re both from flyover states. Gia in the afternoon is fine. Gia in the morning is an exercise in restraint.

She flips on the lights, shoves her stuff in her locker and puts on her apron. She’ll start brewing the drip coffee first, it takes the longest to fill the big stainless steel carafes. When those are going, she moves to the espresso machine and starts putting it together for the daily rush. Making sure everything that had gotten cleaned last night is actually clean. She’s screwing the steaming wand head back on when she hears the rumble of a truck.

Pastry delivery. By the time everything is unloaded and she’s checked everything and signed off on the delivery sheet, Gia has arrived. 

“God,” she says. “It’s soooo eaaarly.”

“It’s just as early as it was last Tuesday,” Trixie says. 

“What should I dooo?” Gia whines.

“Fill the pastry case, please,” Trixie says. And then mutters under her breath, “Just like last Tuesday.”

Closers were supposed to refill the under counter fridges with milk, but of course they didn’t, so she does that. Whole, two percent, skim, almond, soy, coconut, and Raja’s newest order, cashew milk. It’s creamier than the soy and the almond, but it makes the steaming wand scream and get all gunked up so they all hate it. She pushes it farther to the back of the fridge and lets the door shut with a thwap. 

Gia is still listlessly putting bagels onto a tray. And she’s doing a shit job of it.

“Okay, okay,” Trixie says. “Go brew one more cycle of drip. I’ll finish up here.”

She basically has to redo the trays to be presentable but it’s whatever. She finishes just as it’s time to open. There are already people waiting in their car outside. Gia pulls the little string on the neon open sign and Trixie flips the lock on the door. 

It’s the same faces this early. Trixie can tell what to make by the cars that are in the lot. It’s just light enough to be able to see make and model. The moss green Prius is a large soy latte with a splenda. The red pickup is two medium drips with room for cream. The white Tesla is an extra dry cappuccino and one of the delicate florentine cookies. 

She makes the large latte first, pours the two drips while the milk steams. 

“Just a heart today,” says Belinda, the green Prius. 

Trixie pours the milk and then carefully lets the foam float on top, dragging the spout through the bottom on the puddle, creating an easy little heart. 

“Have a good day,” Trixie says, handing it over.

“Thanks, Trix,” she says, popping on a lid and heading for the door. 

The assface who drives the Tesla never says anything to her or even looks up from his phone. She still makes a good, bone dry cappuccino. He picks it up and walks away wordlessly, scrolling facebook. 

By the time the real morning rush starts, Raja has come in and the third girl, Pearl. Pearl does everything apathetically and kind of slow, which can be _really_ annoying when they’re busy, but she’s better at the register than Gia, so Pearl rings people up and Gia helps with non-espresso drinks. The teas, the drip coffees, the mother fuckers who order sweet, blended drinks at eight in the goddamn morning. 

When she finally gets a second to herself, she goes pee in the employee bathroom in the back. Looks herself over while she washes her hands. She’s getting used to the blonde now, though the bleach had dried it out a little and it seems frizzy, especially after spending two hours standing in front of a hot espresso machine. 

Raja is waiting for her when she opens the door.

“Sorry,” she says, more a reflexive habit than anything else. She hates being in the way or taking up space or when people with authority notice her at all, really. 

“Girl,” Raja says. “You can pee, it’s fine. Take a big shit for all I care.”

“Um, thank you?” she says.

“Can you pick up a few afternoon shifts this week?” Raja asks. “I finally fired Mimi.” 

“Oh thank god,” Trixie said. “That girl was a menace.” 

Raja doesn’t comment but clearly agrees. 

“I actually just started another job so… probably not all of them? But maybe. Can I check with you tomorrow?” Trixie asks.

“Sure,” Raja says. “Where’s the new gig?”

“Oh my god, it’s that place Arrow and Daisy? It’s like vegan organic hispter nonsense but it’s really close to my house.”

“What the fuck do arrows or daisies have to do with food?” Raja asks. 

“Dunno,” Trixie says. “But I’ve only worked a few shifts so maybe that will unfold in time.”

Trixie works until ten thirty, and then makes herself a drink to go. Soy milk and caramel sauce in a latte with a little whipped cream on top because why not. She’s still behind the bar when she hears someone clear their throat. A blonde woman at the register. 

At first glance Trixie doesn’t recognize her which registers because she looks different enough to not blend in with the crowd of LA regulars that patronize their establishment. First of all, she’s very pale. Secondly, she’s got a lot of black eyeshadow on for a weekday morning. Like, that is not a daytime look. The red lips only make her look more pale and for a moment she’s just those floating features.

Trixie looks around for Pearl who is across the store sweeping around the condiment bar. Gia is on her break, she can hear her grating voice on her phone from the back. 

Trixie resigns herself to working for free for another two minutes. She wipes her hands on her pants since she’s already taken off her apron and walks over.

“Hi,” she says.

The woman looks at her and her raccoon eyes go wide for a moment. “Oh my god, I get it,” she says.

“Sorry?” Trixie asks. 

“It’s like, punk rock social commentary. By exaggerating beautiful features to their most extreme, you can both benefit from and highlight how ridiculous beauty standards have become. Right on.” 

Trixie stares at her. 

“Also I would like some coffee,” the woman adds. “Like, um… large? Big?” 

“Sure,” Trixie says, pulling a cup. She turns her back on the woman against her better judgement and fills the cup. “Room for cream?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Fuck no,” says the woman. 

Trixie laughs mostly out of nervous energy, tries to hold it in and snorts. She schools her features and turns around. She puts a sleeve on the cup and then clicks a lid on. 

“Listen, I didn’t mean to…” The woman stops. “I just mean to say that you’re aggressively pretty and I think that’s neato.” She grins.

Jesus, her smile is kind of amazing. White teeth, red lips. It changes her face. She’s still a weirdo, but her smile makes her seem trustworthy somehow. 

“Thanks,” Trixie says. She hands her the coffee.

“I feel that I’m supposed to give you money in exchange for your goods,” she says. 

Trixie glances down at the register to ring her up but realizes she’s clocked out. She doesn’t want to get Pearl’s access number or make the woman wait while she makes Pearl walk across the store.

“It’s cool, next time,” Trixie says. This way Raja isn’t making money off Trixie’s free labor anyway. “I like your makeup, by the way.” 

The woman flutters her eyelashes and strikes a gangly pose. “Thanks, Barbie.” 

“Trixie, actually,” Trixie says.

The woman laughs noiselessly, flailing her one arm that isn’t holding coffee. “That’s _perfect_ ,” she says. “Fucking christ.”

Then she ripples her fingers into a little wave and walks out.

Trixie stares after her, perplexed. She tries to see what car the woman goes to, but instead she walks around the corner and disappears.

“Aren’t you off?” Pearl asks when she comes back over. Trixie snaps out of it, grabs her coffee and heads to the back to get her things.

oooo

She has to nap when she works both jobs. She gets up so early that if she doesn’t at least lie down for an hour, by the time she’s halfway through her next shift, she feels like dying. She strips off everything that smells like coffee and crawls into her bed. No one is home this time of day which is always nice. She can walk down the hall in her underwear and not feel weird.

It’s an okay house and sort of ideal for her. She’d found it through the child welfare office - they have all these resources to help people transition out of the system and become independent adults. In Wisconsin, that didn’t mean very much but in California, there are so many kids in the foster system that their social services, while overwhelmed, actually exist. Her landlord, Michelle, is single and had been a foster kid once herself. She has this big house and no one to fill it with, so now she rents out the rooms to people like Trixie. 

Trixie had been wary when she’d come to meet Michelle and look at the room, but actually she kind of likes it here. Her room is the smallest and she has to share a bathroom but having her _own_ room is stellar and while Michelle keeps an eye on the girls she rents to, she doesn’t overly mother them or treat them like they’re little kids. 

Trixie knows that 19 is really young but she also knows that any kid who spends time in foster care is going to seem older than they really are. 

Out of all the girls in the house, Trixie gets along with Kim the best, probably, and she likes Sasha just fine. She could never see Betty again and live a happy and fulfilled life, but Betty doesn’t really live in the house. She’s in an out all the time. She and Michelle have a weird relationship where they’re really close but also they seem to hate each other. Trixie mostly just tries to stay out of it. 

Lying in bed, she closes her eyes, tries to sleep. 

That weirdo lady was pretty. 

She opens her eyes, surprised at the errant thought her brain had supplied. Maybe it’s not so weird. The lady had called Trixie pretty first, sort of. Aggressively pretty. What had she said? Something about exaggerating beauty standards. Maybe that’s partly true. She’d spent a lot of time in her early teens trying to hide the things about herself that men seemed to notice. She kept her hair back in a low ponytail, tried to flatten and hide her figure, only wore makeup to cover bruises, not to look prettier or older. 

And then had realized one day that it wasn’t even working, so why do it? Why not just dress however she wanted if men were going to look at her regardless? If her step-dad said she looked like a slut with eyeliner, she just wore more. If her mom told her that painted nails made her look whorish, she picked a brighter color. And now she’s been doing it so long that it’s just her style.

She rolls over to her phone and picks it up. Opens the browser and searches google images for pictures of Dolly Parton. Dolly was always the prettiest kind of woman to Trixie, so a little bit she patterns herself after that. She goes to youtube and puts on a Dolly playlist. Lets it play while she falls asleep. 

The woman from the coffee shop pops into her head again while she’s walking the four blocks to her next job. If Trixie had to guess, she’d say maybe mid to late twenties? Definitely older than Trixie and she was wearing an overcoat, somewhat professional. She wasn’t one of the ladies who always came in with ponytails and yoga pants and big ass rocks on their fingers or the scary looking power suit women like Belinda, her early morning soy latte with a splenda lady. 

Trixie should have asked for her name. But the whole interaction had been so unusual which is why she’s thinking about someone she’s probably never going to see again in the first place. It’s just that Trixie works all the time and she doesn’t really have any friends. She’d consider Kim a friend, but Kim is shy and not at all social and they only hang out ever because they live in the same place. And the woman had been nice and sort of pretty and Trixie is just lonely, so she fixates on people who show her any amount of attention.

It’s stupid.

The restaurant is slow at three thirty and she’s grateful she’ll get some time to warm up to it. She puts her purse into a little wooden cubby that they’d labeled for her. She can see a bag in the cubby labeled Violet - Violet mostly works behind the bar, making the gross hipster cocktails. She always comes to work dressed like a sad, blonde Bettie Page. Trixie knows her blonde is fake too, because her eyebrows are basically black. 

Trixie ties on her apron and checks that she’s got enough money to make change in the pocket. She has a few plastic pink pens and a pad of white paper. She clocks in and then reads the chalkboard for specials. It’s fake buffalo wings made out of cauliflower, tacos where the meat is made out of walnuts, and an avocado flatbread that sounds pretty good, actually. The rest of the menu is small and doesn’t change that much, so she’d memorized it pretty easily. 

She clocks on and then goes around to make sure there’s salt and pepper on every table. Then she goes to roll up biodegradable cutlery into organic cloth napkins until her first table shows up. 

oooo

She tells Raja that she’ll take two of the afternoon shifts because out of her two jobs, she likes the coffee shop the best and she’s worked there long enough that she makes more than minimum wage. But it means she gives up on having a day off. She’ll have to consider days off to be the one where she works only one job for awhile. 

“Don’t burn yourself out,” Michelle had muttered the night before when she’d come home exhausted from the A&D. But what else does Trixie have to do, really? The more money she saves, the safer she feels. And if she can work hard enough to get a place on her own, then it will free up her little room for some other kid who probably needs it more. It’s not like Michelle would kick her out but this is a good home and she knows they’re scarce. 

“I’ll be fine,” Trixie had promised. And she will be. There’s something comforting in knowing the worst days of your life are behind you. Like, what can be worse than Wisconsin? And her mother and her shitty step dad? She has to make sure she never goes back there, no matter what. And if she does well enough… well, her brothers will be fine probably. But Lorna is only eight and maybe Trixie could get her sister out of there somehow? Before she hits twelve and everything changes?

She tries to work toward it without actively thinking about it, anyway. 

Afternoons in the coffee shop are different than the morning rush. It’s much more chill but time certainly does not pass as fast, especially when she’s already got a morning shift under her belt. But again, at least they aren’t Starbucks. Haus of Bean closes by six everyday. 

It’s during the afternoon that the woman returns. Most tables are full of people with laptops who have been camped out for awhile, but the line is slow. Trixie is rearranging the pastry case so that things don’t look so picked over. She hears the bell on the door and looks up. Says, “It’s you!” brightly at the sight of the strange blonde woman.

Which is stupid. She feels her cheeks go hot. Way to make herself seem creepy right away. 

“Hiya Barbie,” the woman says. She grins that huge grin again. Trixie relaxes a little, smiles back. It’s been about two weeks and Trixie has just convinced herself that they’d been ships in the night.

“Can I get you something?” Trixie asks.

“Whatever comes in an IV bag,” she says and laughs her weezy little laugh. “Do people say that to you all the time?”

“Just like four times a day, it’s no big deal,” Trixie says. The woman is wearing a black dress today with red embroidery along the sleeves and hem and her blonde hair is pulled over one shoulder into a sloppy braid. She’s got the blunt bangs that Trixie hates on Violet. On her, they’re pretty. She has the face shape for them. 

“What’s the best thing on the menu, what do you like the best?” she asks Trixie. 

“Oh well I like trash, so my favorite thing is definitely not the best thing here,” Trixie admits. “But I’ll make you a pour over if you want.” 

“Okay,” she says. 

Trixie picks up a paper cup and says, slyly she thinks, “Your name?”

“No one has _ever_ asked me for my name here before!” the woman says and narrows her eyes. “You gonna write it on the cup so you don’t get me confused with the rest of the line?” She flaps her arm at the emptiness behind her. 

Trixie blushes again but manages to roll her eyes. “Suit yourself.” 

She drifts down the bar to grind the beans and set up the pour over. The woman moves with her, watching her work. Trixie folds the edges of the filter, dumps in the grounds and then fills her metal pot with water from the hot water spigot. 

“It takes a minute,” Trixie says. “Sorry, I should have asked if you were in a rush.”

“Lunch break,” she says. “I have time.” 

Trixie pours some water over and waits for it to settle.

“Yekaterina,” the woman says. 

Trixie turns to look at her and says, “Excuse me?”

The woman follows her back to the register.

“My name,” she says. “Yekaterina.” She says it like maybe English isn’t her first language, though Trixie hasn’t noticed an accent. The woman rolls her eyes. “Jesus, I don’t know why I just told you that. No one calls me that. I go by Katya.” She extends her hand. Trixie shakes it and Katya’s grip is firm. 

“Nice to meet you,” Trixie says. “Five fifty.” 

Katya gives her a crumpled ten dollar bill and Trixie does the transaction. Katya drops all her change into the tip jar. This time Katya goes all the way down to the end where there are a few stools and she can perch and watch Trixie finish the pour over.

“Here,” Trixie says. “What do you think?”

Katya sips it and her eyes go wide. “It makes all other coffee taste like hot garbage juice. Thank you.”

Trixie screams out a laugh that makes people turn and look at her. She puts her hand over her mouth. Katya seems delighted.

“Anyway, do you care if I sit here and bug you for a little while? I hate to stay at work on my breaks but it’s so hot out there.”

“Yeah, totally,” Trixie says. “Where do you work?” 

“Not far from here,” Katya says. 

The bell on the door rings and Trixie has to go take some more orders and then make the drinks. And then Raja comes back from the bank and there was something off with the deposit so she and Trixie have to comb through the tape from yesterday to find the missing money. It’s Trixie who finds where Gia rang in the wrong amount. Raja thanks her. 

Trixie turns back to Katya, but she’s standing up, putting her brown bag over her shoulder and holding her coffee. 

“Thank you, Barbie, for the good coffee. I gotta go.”

And then she’s gone again. 

oooo

Trixie and Kim are sitting in the living room watching TV when Michelle gets home from work. 

“You guys want to order a pizza?” she asks, sounding tired.

“Literally always,” Kim says. Trixie tries not to spend money on takeout if she can help it. She tries to eat at work or buy cheap groceries but it’s been a long couple weeks. 

“Yes,” Trixie says. “That sounds so good.” 

Michelle orders two, one vegetable one for her and Trixie and a meat one for the other girls. She won’t pay for delivery, of course, so Trixie offers to go with her to pick it up. Trixie rides her pink beach cruiser to the coffee shop and can walk to the A&D so she doesn’t have a car and actually doesn’t even have a license. She can drive but by the time she could have taken the test, she was in the system and now she can’t afford a car anyway. She has a state ID card instead. She doesn’t miss driving, though it does limit her somewhat. 

Michele drives a black Dodge Charger which Trixie thinks is a sedan masquerading as a muscle car which is kind of a good metaphor for Michelle. She seems tough but is like, a loving mom figure. Or maybe an aunt. Trixie’s pink converse look extra bright against the dark mats of the car floor. She stares at her feet while they ride.

“You doing okay sugar?” Michelle asks. “I never see you.”

“I picked up extra shifts at the Haus,” Trixie says. 

“You know,” Michelle says. “I can do sliding scale rent if you think you can’t make it this month. I’ll always work with you, you just have to say something.” 

“Oh,” Trixie says. “Well thank you, but it’s because they’re short handed. It’s just until my boss hires someone else. And anyway, I like working. Keeps me busy.”

“I just hope you do something fun now and then,” Michelle says. “You deserve to have fun. To be carefree sometimes.” 

“I have fun,” Trixie says. “I’m about to eat pizza.”

Michelle glares at her from the side. “What about dating?”

“Um,” Trixie says. “I’m not… I don’t feel like… I’m just not in the mood for that I think.”

Michelle presses her lips together. Looks a little sad and says, “Okay.” 

Trixie hasn’t ever dated anyone, actually. She always had too much going on in school and then everything got weird and scary and now she just feels like what’s the point? She lives in this weird halfway house situation and so she wouldn’t want to bring anyone home there anyway and she doesn’t like the idea of going to clubs and being surrounded by loud, drunk strangers. 

And it’s weird because she feels so inexperienced, like she’s this dumb virgin but she’s not. Not technically and then how do you explain that to someone? Plus she’s not… she just can’t see herself ever dating a man but she doesn’t feel like she deserves to date a woman so it’s all just… really complicated. 

“It’s really good that you know what you are and aren’t ready for,” Michelle says. “And I’m so proud of how hard you work. I really like having you in the house, Trixie, I hope you know that.”

Tears spring to her eyes and she’s immediately mortified. She bats them away with the back of her hand and manages a strangled, “Thanks.”

Maybe Michelle can see that the praise makes her uncomfortable because she drops it. 

Riding home with the hot pizzas warming her thighs through the cardboard is the best part of her day.

oooo

She only has to do the dinner shift at the A&D today, so the morning free feels luxurious. She gets to sleep in, for once and though part of her is tempted to sleep until noon to try to make up for all the sleep she doesn’t get regularly, she knows it will make a four am wake up time harder the next day, so she only sleeps until eight. It still feels pretty good. 

She’s awake and in the kitchen when Michelle and Sasha are getting ready to leave. Sasha is in school for fashion. Trixie is still a little unclear what it is that Michelle does, but it seems to be about fundraising for a bunch of different organizations. Some people are just good at asking for money, she guesses. 

“Oh look who is actually home,” Michelle says, coming into the kitchen. She gives Trixie’s back a little pat. Trixie’s sitting at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of chai tea and nibbling on half a bagel. 

“Don’t I look better in natural light?” Trixie asks jokingly. 

“I like the blonde, by the way,” Sasha says. “I don’t know if I told you.”

“Thanks, I think it really completes my life in plastic look,” Trixie says. 

Sasha shaves her head or at least buzzes it down so there is only bits of stubble. Trixie doesn’t know why and she hasn’t asked. Maybe it’s like a Furiosa Russian thing - Sasha’s parents were Russian immigrants, Trixie knows at least that much. Sasha wasn’t taken away like Trixie, her parents both died in a car accident and she didn’t have any other family in the country. 

When they leave, Trixie goes back upstairs to take a shower. Kim is home, probably, because her door is closed and it’s early enough that she’d still be sleeping, so Trixie knows she doesn’t have to worry about taking too much time in the shower. She washes her hair and shaves her legs and under her arms. 

By the time she’s dressed and prepared for the day, whatever it may bring, Kim is awake. Kim’s hair is lavender this week but she changes it a lot. Trixie gets that. Sometimes when you feel totally out of control of a situation, hair is an easy thing to take control back with. Kim’s hair is in a ratty knot on her head, but she already has on perfect winged liner.

“You’re home!” Kim says. 

“Yeah, I don’t work until four,” Trixie says. 

“You want to go to the library with me?” Kim asks. 

“Sure,” Trixie agrees. Kim has a car, but it’s a junker and it’s such a nice day that they decide to ride their bicycles. The Fremont branch of the library isn’t that far away from Haus of Bean, so they figure they can go to the library and then get coffee on the way home. It sounds like a pleasant way to pass a morning. Trixie isn’t much of a reader - she can read but there were never books in her house, really, growing up and library books were only free if you had someone to take you to return them on time, and Trixie never did. Kim loves to read, though, always has her nose in a book. She has three books in the basket of her bicycle, ready to return. 

The library is busy and for some reason this surprises Trixie. Maybe because it’s a weekday morning and normal people should be at work, but the parking lot is full and even the bike rack has other bicycles attached to it. They lock up their bikes and head in.

“Oh,” Kim says, sounding old and wise. She nods her head toward the back of the building. “Storytime.” 

“Huh?” Trixie asks.

“It’s storytime? For the little kids? Didn’t your family ever take you to a storytime?” Kim asks.

“I didn’t have loving parents who wanted me to succeed, Kim,” Trixie says dryly. “Sometimes I got to wait outside in the car while my step-dad went to the liquor store. Does that count?”

“That’s grim,” Kim says and pats her arm awkwardly. Then she turns and heads toward the self-return machines. 

Trixie doesn’t have a library card and isn’t really sure how to get one. But she’s fine to wander around the library on her own for awhile. It’s not really like any library she’s ever seen. The outside looks more like a super nice house and blends in with the other houses in the neighborhood. Like so many structures in Southern California, the design looks Spanish. The roof has red tiles on the inside, the walls are painted white and the ceiling is made of dark wood. And it’s not loud in here, but it certainly isn’t quiet.

Kim had been right about storytime. Trixie can hear singing and she heads toward the sound. The children’s area is a sea of tiny bodies and parked strollers. There are adults too, most of them sitting on the ground with their kids, some on the fringe, just standing and watching. 

The woman leading the storytime is singing a song about going to the moon. She rubs her hands together and then raises her arms in an arc above her head. Once she starts counting down from five, the whole crowd starts to squirm with gleeful anticipation. 

“3...2...1...BLASTOFF!” she cries and all the kids jump into the air with happy shrieks.

“Good job, little astronauts!” the woman says. “Shall we go to the stars this time?”

The crowd cheers and the song starts over again.

It makes her heart ache, a little. Things like this always do. Getting to see how childhood is supposed to be she supposes. How other people get to grow up in a brightly lit room full of books and happy songs and she just got Wisconsin and a mother who never protected her and a handsy step-dad. 

She shakes it off, walks away from the children’s areas toward taller shelving. The sign above reads fiction. She walks down the side of the shelves, looking but not really looking until she peers down an aisle and sees someone shelving books from a metal cart. 

Blonde hair, red lips. It’s Katya. 

Trixie freezes, unsure of what to do. If she should say something or not. If she says something will Katya think Trixie found her on purpose? But how would she even do that? She’s just about to walk away when Katya looks up and says, “Can I help you find something?”

Trixie feels herself coloring again, but bravely waves.

Katya’s distantly polite customer service demeanor quickly evaporates and she stands up a little straighter and says, “Oh!”

“Hey,” Trixie says.

“Malibu Barbie, are you a stalker?” Katya asks, walking a little closer to her, abandoning the half full cart. 

“Yep,” Trixie says. “I know absolutely nothing about you, so it was super easy to track you down.” 

Katya grins. 

“Actually I’m here with my roommate,” Trixie says. “I guess you do work close to Haus of Bean.”

“There’s like nothing else around here, really,” Katya says. “We all go there a ton. I didn’t see you this morning though.” She looks at the shelf in front of her and straightens a book nonchalantly. 

“Nah, I work my other job today,” Trixie says. Katya glances at her but Trixie isn’t gonna spill her whole life story. “Storytime is cute.”

“Yeah, that’s Miss Becca,” Katya says. “The children’s librarian. She’s great and pretty and married already to a _man_ , so I just have pine wistfully.” 

Trixie gets a funny feeling, like her tummy bottoming out. She feels her hands start to sweat. 

Was that a joke or what? Is Katya… does she like other women?

“Haha, yeah,” Trixie says. “Well I shouldn’t bug you at work. Good to see you.” 

“Oh,” Katya says. “Yeah. You too.”

Trixie gives another tiny, dumb wave and turns to go back the way she came. 

“Hey, Trixie?” Katya says. 

So she does remember Trixie’s actual name.

“Hmm?” she says. 

“Are you working tomorrow at das german bean house?” Katya asks. 

“Yeah, a split shift,” Trixie says.

“Okay,” Katya says. “See you tomorrow, then.”

Trixie smiles. “Bye, Katya.” 

She finds Kim with a new armful of books, waiting by the door.

“Are you ready?” Kim asks. 

Trixie nods and they walk out into the bright sunny day.

oooo

It’s a weird shift at the A&D. Violet is in a bad mood, the other two girls working are Farrah and Alyssa. Alyssa is a fine waitress - spends a little too much time flirting at every table, but overall is good. Farrah is so beautiful and so, so dumb. That’s unfair, Trixie thinks. Actually, Farrah is her same age or close enough, but she’s lived a sheltered, spoiled life and this is her first job and she’s not used to having responsibility. She gets overwhelmed easily and then it’s up to everyone else to pick up her slack. So by the middle of the shift, Violet is a powder keg waiting to go off, Farrah is blubbering half the time, and Alyssa’s food is getting cold because she keeps chatting up the guys at table nine. 

Trixie has her four tables and keeps running out Alyssa’s food for her. She’s been waiting too long for a lemon drop and Violet is punching something angrily into the order screen.

“Hey Vi,” Trixie says. “Any news on that lemon drop for table four?”

“Get out of my face, it’s coming,” Violet says. 

It would take her thirty seconds to make it herself, but she can only serve it. She’s not old enough to actually make it without breaking the law. She sucks in air through her teeth and heads to the kitchen to check on food. Farrah is standing by the window with shiny cheeks, sniffling mournfully. 

“Listen,” Trixie says. “Honey, you gotta suck it up. It’s just a dumb job. Power through and cry about it after.” 

“You don’t understand,” Farrah says mournfully.

“I understand that if I have to keep carrying your tables, I’m gonna start carrying your tips too,” Trixie says loading up three meals onto a tray and hefting it onto her shoulder. She doesn’t wait for Farrah’s reply. She delivers the food, promises refills and swings back to the bar. 

“Violet, are you waiting for the damn lemons to grow?” Trixie asks, starting to really lose her cool. 

“I’m making it,” Violet says. “Fucking christ.” 

Trixie stands there, waits her out so that she doesn’t start doing something else. And since she’s feeling benevolent, she runs a couple of beers to a table for Alyssa. 

The manager, Bianca, cuts Farrah first because no one can stand her. Alyssa should technically go first because she was the first on for the shift, but Alyssa doesn’t mind, she says, could use a few more tips. 

They’re out of the little mason jars they serve water in and so when it finally slows down enough that she can catch her breath, she starts loading the dirty ones into the plastic racks for the industrial dishwasher and sending them through. 

“Hey,” Bianca says. “Are you washing dishes?”

“We were out of water glasses,” Trixie says. Bianca nods. 

“I was worried when you got hired because you’re so young and I was like, great two Farrah’s,” Bianca says. “But you’re the best one here. Thank you for working so hard tonight.”

“Oh,” Trixie says, wiping her hands nervously on her dirty apron. “Um. Cool.” 

Bianca rolls her eyes. “If you want to pick up a few more shifts, let me know. I could use another Sunday brunch girl and maybe Tuesday lunch?”

“Uh,” Trixie says, picturing her already kind of bananas schedule. “I can do brunch. Tuesdays I’m at my other job.” 

“Hey, I’ll take it,” Bianca says. “Anyway, go ahead and do your closing stuff.”

She sighs. Her feet are screaming. “Okay.”

Once she does all her end of night stuff, Bianca lets her go home. It’s just Violet in the bar for the last hour. She waves at Violet to show no hard feels and Violet rolls her eyes but waves back.

She thinks about Katya as she tiredly walks home. How she said she pines after the pretty librarian. The way she’d said ‘man’ so disdainfully. Trixie thinks about seeing her in the morning at Haus of Bean and her heart speeds up a little.

oooo

She’s just… too tired for the full mask in the morning, so she does foundation, concealer, powder, and a heavy mascara. Light makeup and a dark berry lip to compensate. And blush, of course, she’s not a monster. She tends to wear pink to the coffee shop and black to the restaurant, but today she wears a white t-shirt and black skinny jeans, hoping no coffee disasters punish her for the hubris of wearing white to work. The apron covers a lot, anyway. 

She’s opening with Pearl today and when Raja comes in, she says, “Trixie I hired a new girl. Can you help train her today?”

“Sure,” Trixie says. 

“I’m starting her in the afternoon so should be easy,” Raja says before she disappears into the office. 

She waits all morning for Katya, though she would never admit to it if anyone asked, not that anyone would. They only person who might have possibly noticed that she and Katya are chatty with one another is Pearl and Pearl doesn’t give enough of a shit to notice things. It’s after ten when Trixie finally gives up hope of seeing her. She clocks out. It’s fine, it’s not like they made solid plans and life happens. Maybe Katya woke up with a cold or maybe she didn’t feel like coffee or maybe that pretty librarian announced she was getting a divorce. 

She has like two hours before she has to clock on again and it’s just enough time to be useless. Too much to just sit around and not enough to go home and come back. When they work split shifts like this, Raja feeds them so she takes one of the pre-made sandwiches and makes herself an iced tea. She’ll sit and eat and then maybe take a walk. 

She’s still squirting simple syrup into her tea when the bell jangles on the door. She can hear Pearl say something and then, “Oh I’ll have what she’s having.”

Trixie turns. Katya is in a red tank top and black leggings today, her blonde hair loose and wavy. She’s pinned her blunt bangs back and it makes her look softer, somehow. Trixie notices how long her eyelashes are. 

“Ummm,” Pearl says, unsure of what to do. 

“It’s fine,” Trixie says. “I’ll take care of it.” She comes over and says, “You really want my diabetes tea?”

“Okay, no, black coffee,” Katya says and laughs at herself. 

“Give her my discount, would you?” Trixie says. She feels bad she can’t comp it but it’s weird when someone else is there. “Are you hungry? I was just… gonna go on my break.”

“Oh, sure. Maybe a muffin?” She looks into the case. “That sad lonely bran muffin. I’ll save it.”

“Suuure,” Pearl says and shuffles over to the case. 

Trixie leaves them and heads to the small table where her sandwich is waiting. It’s away from the door, not too close to the bathroom, but still kind of tucked away by where the wall and window meet. She sits down, peels back the paper from her sandwich. It doesn’t take long for Katya to come over and say in a low voice, “Is this seat taken?”

“Go ahead,” Trixie says. “I wasn’t… sure I’d see you today after all.”

“Well, we don’t open until noon today, so,” Katya says, fussing with the paper on her muffin. “How long is your break?”

“Two hours,” Trixie says. 

“Oh that’s a weird amount of time to fill,” Katya says. 

“I know, right? Split shifts are blah.” Trixie sighs, takes a bite of her sandwich. 

“I could never do what you do,” Katya says. “It always seems so hectic and there’s so much to remember. I’d flip out.”

“I mean… libraries are like all of the knowledge in the world shoved in one place,” Trixie counters. “You gotta keep that all in your librarian brain.”

“I’m just a shelver,” Katya says waving her hand. She’s got a wooden bangle bracelet on one skinny wrist and it spins a little with her movement. “It’s like the custodial staff of the library world. Even knowing where all the books go isn’t complicated, I mean the instructions are literally written on the spine.”

“Custodians are the most important job, do you want to go to a school or a concert venue or a hospital where no one has cleaned the place?” Trixie says.

Katya’s lips curl into a slow smile. “That’s a very good point Miss Trixie… last name still as yet undiscovered.” 

Trixie laughs, sticks out her hand. “Trixie Mattel.”

Katya shakes it, just like the first time, firmly. “Katya Zamolodchikova.” She says it so fast that it comes out a bit blurry.

“I hope that’s not on the spelling test,” Trixie says.

“Eh, it’s a common enough name in Russia,” she says. 

“Is that where you’re from?” Trixie asks.

“I’m from Boston,” Katya says. “My grandparents were immigrants, though.”

“I’m from Wisconsin,” Trixie says. “I think my parents immigrated there from hell.”

Katya laughs. “Can’t say I’ve ever been there.”

“Good,” Trixie says. “That’s a blessing.” 

They chat a little while Trixie finishes her sandwich. Katya lives by herself not too far away. She only works at the library four days a week. She likes to paint. Trixie mentions she’s also a waitress, she lives with roommates, she doesn’t drive.

“Hey,” Katya says. “You want to go for a walk?”

“Yep,” Trixie says. “Don’t you have to get to work?”

“I have some time. We can walk that way,” Katya says. Trixie runs to get her bag. She doesn’t like leaving it behind. 

Once they’re outside, Katya pulls a pair of huge black sunglasses out of her bag and Trixie puts on her pink plastic ones and smiles. 

“Trixie,” Katya says seriously. “E-trix-abeth.”

“You know that’s not what Trixie’s short for,” Trixie says. 

“Trixica,” Katya says anyway. “I have a proposal for you.”

“Oh,” Trixie says, nervous suddenly. They’d been having a nice time, an easy flow of conversation. So nice Trixie had forgotten to be nervous. It all comes crashing back into her now. “Um, okay.”

“I think you and I,” she says twirling her hand with a flourish, “should be friends.”

“Oh!” Trixie says. 

“Not I see you at the coffee shop and you see me in the book prison, but real life friends,” Katya says. “This may sound pathetic but I am not good at friendship and I like you very much.”

“Your super formal verbal friend requests don’t work for you?” Trixie says dryly. “You don’t say.”

Katya screams, runs a little lap around her flailing. “Bitch,” she wheezes. 

“No, I’m kidding,” Trixie says. “Of course we should be friends.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Katya starts digging in her bag and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Trixie scrunches her nose. “Yeah, now that I have you, I should tell you that I’m a terrible friend. But as my friend you can’t judge me for my filthy habits.” She lights the cigarette with a red plastic lighter. 

Trixie doesn’t have a surplus of friends so she ignores the smell. 

Trixie can see the library now. Outside are a row of benches and they sit on one so Katya can finish her cigarette. Trixie pulls her phone out of her pocket and unlocks it. Hands it to Katya. “Put your number in,” she says. 

“Oh my, so serious,” Katya says, but she takes the phone and pecks at it. She has to push her sunglasses up and squint at the screen. “Sending myself a text… and done.” She hands the phone back. Something in her bag dings. She rummages around until she finds her own phone and then says, “Thanks Trix, I am very pretty. Nice of you to say.”

Trixie laughs. “You’re welcome,” she says. “I never lie to my friends.” 

“On Sunday there’s a badass swap meet I like to go to. You can find the freakiest stuff there. Do you want to go?” Katya asks. 

“Um,” Trixie says and pulls out her planner. She feels like she’s working Sunday. Well, she’s definitely is, but she’s started to lose track a little so she now writes everything down in a little paper planner. Black ink is Haus of Bean, blue ink is the A&D. 

“What is _that_ ,” Katya demands and snatches the planner away. “Fucking fuckballs. Is this your schedule?”

“Yeah,” Trixie says. “I think I picked up the brunch shift Sunday.”

“I think you picked up all the shifts on every day, mama, this is a lot. This is you working twelve days a week.”

“Well I just don’t make that much at either and I’m trying to save up some money,” Trixie says. “It’s okay, I don’t mind working.” 

“But when do you do anything else?” Katya asks. “You literally work 18 hour days five days a week.”

“It doesn’t quite shake out like that,” Trixie says defensively. “I almost always have a gap between jobs.” 

Katya just keeps staring at her bubbly writing filling up the month of June in horror. 

“And! And I’m training a new girl today,” Trixie says. “I picked up extra shifts when Haus was short handed, but some of those I’ll get to give back in a couple weeks.”

Katya hands the little planner back and stubs her cigarette out on the concrete planter behind the bench. “I should go in.”

Trixie feels like she’s messed up. Like the friendship is already over. 

“I had a nice time today,” Trixie says, hopeful to salvage something. “Maybe I can’t make the swap meet, but I’d love to see some of your artwork. Maybe Sunday night instead?”

Katya crosses her arms, nods. “Okay.”

“Watch,” Trixie says and pulls a pink pen out of her purse. She scratches _Katya_ onto the little square in tiny pink letters. “I’ll text you, okay?”

Katya smiles. “Okay, Barbie.” She stands, shoulders her bag. “Thanks for the family discount earlier.”

“What are friends for?” Trixie asks.

She berates herself for saying the cheesy line all the way back to work. 

oooo

The new girl, Adore, is a bit of a mystery. At first Trixie thinks Raja has found them another Pearl - haughty and lazy or another dumb valley girl, but it doesn’t take long for Trixie to realize it’s all a facade. She’s not dumb because she picks things up fast enough, especially the register which can be complicated because the software is outdated and shitty. And Trixie can see that she does care, because she’s careful to make things correctly. 

Trixie is teaching her how to steam milk when Adore says something about her living situation and Trixie can just tell from the careful way she phrases it that she’s a foster kid, or was. 

“Are you 18 yet?” Trixie asks. 

Adore glances at her with narrow eyes and turns the steam wand off. 

“Not until September, why?” she asks.

No sense in beating around the bush. “I was a foster kid too,” Trixie says. After that, Adore seems to relax a lot. They chat a little about it - not their situations but what Trixie did to stay on her feet. Trixie tells her about how she found Michelle and that there is good transitional housing out there and that Adore getting a job is awesome because shows responsibility. 

At the end of the shift, Adore hugs her and says, “Thanks Trixie.”

Raja sees the whole thing and waits until Adore is gone before she says, “I knew you were the right person to train her.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Trixie says. 

“I hear a hot blonde has been hanging around asking for you,” Raja says with a smirk. “Do you have an admirer, Miss Mattel?”

“No,” Trixie says, cursing Pearl internally. “Just friends. I think.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Raja says. 

She’s home by the time Katya texts her. Trixie is surprised because she feels like their time together ended weirdly. The text is a picture and when Trixie opens it, she sees it’s a tube of acrylic paint in pink. 

Trixie smiles, texts back, _Did something or someONE inspire you today?_

Katay sends back, _I’ll never telllllll_.

Trixie feels better about things, anyway. She washes her face, puts up her hair, and crawls into bed for a nap before dinner.

oooo

The brunch shift blows and Trixie has fourteen thousand regrets about taking it. They’re slammed from the moment the doors open and every table is at least four people, but most of them are large groups so they have to push tables together and it means she makes less money and turnover takes longer. Also, everyone is an asshole.

“Dude fuck brunch,” Shea says when they both find each other in the kitchen. Shea works at one of their sister restaurants but the A&D had been written up on some LA brunch blog and so they’ve needed extra girls. 

“Yeah this is not worth it,” Trixie says, scanning the pass-through for her orders. She loads up a tray and is waiting for another plate, so she goes over to grab another carafe of orange juice for table three. 

Bianca finds her and says, “I’ll run your food, Trix, can you please go help with espresso drinks?”

“Violet gets bitchy if I try to go behind the bar!” Trixie protests. 

“Well she is drowning in bloody marys and mimosas so tell her I sent you,” Bianca says. “Go!”

Violet must be swamped because not only does she not get mad at the sight of Trixie ducking under the bar, but she points to the overwhelmed receipt printer and says, “Thank you, girl.” 

The espresso machine at the A&D is dinky and cheap compared to what she’s used to at Haus of Bean, but it works basically the same way. She starts grinding and tamping shots and pulling them into little metal pitchers so she has them to work with. Once they’re going, she steams a huge thing of soy milk and knocks out three lattes right away, drawing little hearts with the foam. Then she has handful of cappuccinos and three mochas topped in whipped cream. When she gets through the americano and the macchiato, she’s caught up. Farrah is on food running duty exclusively because they’re too busy for mistakes, so she runs all the drinks. 

At two o’clock, it finally slows down enough that they can let Farrah go home. Trixie spends at least fifteen minutes bussing and resetting tables, dragging them apart to reset the restaurant back to standard formation. 

Bianca calls her back to the bar and says, “Violet wants to train you for the bar and I think it’s a good idea.” 

“You do?” Trixie asks, looking at Violet with surprise. “I mean… that’s kind but I’m not 21 for another 14 months.” 

“It’s mostly beer and wine service, honestly,” Violet says. “And on days like this it’s good to have a second person back here, loathe as I am to admit it.”

“Especially since we were in that blog,” Bianca says. 

“Sure then,” Trixie says. “I guess.” 

“Maybe she can teach you a thing or two about making coffee,” Bianca says to Violet before she walks away.

“Cunt,” Violet mutters.

They close at three and at 2:45, the door opens and Trixie can hear Violet groan. Trixie is rolling up silverware, but she stops to go greet them at the host stand.

It’s not a group, it’s just one person. Katya.

“Now who is the stalker?” Trixie asks. “Or is this a coincidence?”

“Yep, just strolling by, felt like a waffle,” Katya says. Trixie can tell she’s joking. She has her hair up today in two buns high on her head. Her neck is long and pale. She’s wearing a black jumpsuit and her earrings look like little eyeballs. Her lipstick is so perfect - the contrast between the deep red and her perfect white skin makes Trixie both jealous and enchanted.

“How did you even know I worked here?” Trixie asks. “Pretty sure I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m a regular Cam Jansen,” Katya says. 

“Who?” 

“Girl detective,” Katya says. “I was shelving in children’s yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“I saw your planner, blondie,” Katya says. “So are you off soon?” 

“Yeah,” Trixie says. “Did you… can you wait? You want a drink?”

She leads Katya over to the bar. Violet glares at her. “No, it’s okay, this is my friend Katya,” Trixie says. “This is Violet.” 

“I know you!” Katya says. “You do that show at _Pour Vous_ , right?”

“Yeah,” Violet says. 

“It’s really cool,” Katya says. “I love burlesque but no one wants to see me unwrap this tired old hog body.”

Trixie thinks she would but says nothing. It’s difficult to leave Katya to chat with Violet but she does to speed through her closing work. Finally, she goes back to the bar to sit next to Katya while she counts out her money and separates what she owes to the restaurant from her tips.

Katya and Violet are now talking about fashion. Trixie knows what she likes and knows what looks good on her own body, but otherwise knows very little about high fashion or what’s current. Violet says something that makes Katya do her wheezy laugh and Trixie feels disappointed and insecure. Both that she’s not the only one who makes Katya laugh and that Katya’s going to realize that she could find friends a lot more interesting than Trixie. 

She’s tidying up her money, wrapping what she needs to hand off to Bianca in a white receipt of her totals, pointedly not looking at either girl so they won’t notice her red cheeks. But then she feels a warm hand on her back and Katya says, “You done?” The hand moves up and down and it feels nice. The only person who ever touches Trixie with any regularity is Michelle and that’s only a pat now and again. She leans into the hand a little and says. “Yeah, I’ll be right back.” 

She tucks her tips into her pocket and hops off the barseat. When she comes back with her denim coat and purse, Katya is waiting for her by the door. 

Outside the sun is bright and warm. As hot as it gets in LA she never minds it, because there’s no humidity.

“I’m parked that down there,” Katya says pointing in the direction of Trixie’s house. 

“Do you mind if I stop at home and change first?” Trixie asks. “What are we even doing?”

“I have a plan,” Katya says. When they walk past Katya’s car, she gives it a little pat. It’s a white Audi, a surprisingly nice car, incongruous with the image of Katya Trixie has made in her mind. Katya must have money or come from people who do because she’s not making nice car money shelving books four days a week. It’s just another thing they don’t have in common. And now they’re on their way to Trixie’s house of wayward, broken, poor girls. 

“Um,” Trixie says. “You know you don’t have to… if you decide that you’re bored of me or whatever, I’d understand.” She’d rather Katya let her down now than drag it out.

“Huh?” Katya asks. “I don’t think you’re boring. I think you’re fascinating.” 

“Oh,” Trixie says. 

“I want to peel you apart like an onion and see what’s inside,” Katya says, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“Um, it’s more onion,” Trixie says, deadpan. “The only thing inside onion is onion.”

Katya cackles. “Good thing I love onion.”

They’ve reached the house. “Okay so… this is it.” Trixie says. “I rent a room so I have roommates and my room is probably a mess.”

“Great,” Katya says grinning. 

Trixie has never brought anyone home with her before. The front door is unlocked and she can hear the television. In the living room, Michelle and Betty are on the couch watching something with a big bowl of popcorn between them. They look up and Trixie clocks the surprise on Michelle’s face right away. 

“Hi,” Trixie says. “This is my friend Katya.”

“Hi,” Michelle says, and stands up to shake Katya’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Michelle.”

“A pleasure to meet you as well,” Katya says. “You have a lovely home.” 

“I’m just gonna… change and then we’re leaving,” Trixie says, grabbing Katya’s elbow and giving it a tug toward the stairs.

“Sure,” Michelle says faintly as Trixie walks away. 

“She seems nice,” Katya says, looking all around. There’s pictures in the hallway of Michelle’s family - she has two girls but they’re grown and gone. Trixie has met the younger one once and the older one lives somewhere else. Out of state. 

Trixie’s room is too small to leave really and truly messy or it stops being functional but there’s makeup all over the little desk and a pile of clean clothes on the foot of the bed. 

“I just want to wear something that doesn’t stink like work,” Trixie says. Katya steps closer to her and sniffs. They’re close enough that their arms brush.

“I think you smell nice.” Katya’s eyelashes are so, so long. Trixie stares at them for a second, dreamily. Then clears her throat and steps back.

“I could do better,” she says, and starts pawing through the laundry. Katya sits down at the desk and runs her fingers over the products there. Pink lipsticks, mascara, the unwashed jar of brushes. 

Trixie picks out some denim shorts with a waist high enough to be forgiving of her soft stomach and a sleeveless pale pink blouse with a white peter pan collar. She holds them and moves to the door to change in the bathroom.

“Don’t be shy on my account,” Katya says. “I won’t peek.” Trixie can see her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. 

Still, Trixie turns around before peeling off her black work shirt. She has on a pink bra, but it’s hot pink. It shows through the lighter shirt a little but she doesn’t care and she’s certainly not going to change bras in front of Katya. The pants go next and she shimmies into the shorts. They button up the front and she turns back around while fastening them. Katya is facing her like she’d been, in fact, peeking. 

“How is my face?” Trixie asks. 

“Pretty,” Katya says.

“I mean my makeup,” Trixie says. Katya reaches for a powder compact and stands up, pops it open. There’s a little sponge inside under the product. Katya pats it into the powder and then slowly brings it to Trixie’s face. She presses it into her forehead, her cheeks, her chin. She’s so close that Trixie can smell her minty breath, whatever she’s used to try to mask the smell of cigarettes. Trixie’s never kissed anyone on purpose before but she thinks about it now. She’s been unsure about what she might want out of a romantic partner, whether her insistent attraction to girls was only a reaction to her intense fear and hatred of men (thanks, Ron), but she definitely in this moment wants Katya. No question about it. 

Katya clicks the compact closed. “Now you’re perfect.” She returns it to the desk. 

With a fluttery stomach she puts on some shoes, grabs her coat and her bag. Doubt starts to creep back in. Maybe Katya doesn’t… maybe they’re not on the same page. After all, Trixie’s never said one word about wanting more than friendship.

Back downstairs, they say goodbye to Michelle and Betty. On their way out, she hears Betty call, “Have fun on your date!” and then a loud “Ouch!” 

On the street, walking back to Katya’s car, Trixie says, “I’ve never actually done… that.” She feels young and stupid but she needs to know what it is that they’re doing, exactly. She has about as much experience with dating as she does with friendship outside of a forced proximity situation like school. 

“What… oh,” Katya says. “Dating?”

Trixie nods. 

They stop at the car and Katya leans against it. “Is that what we’re doing, Barbie?” she asks coyly. “Is this a date?”

Trixie feels her mouth go dry as a wave of mortification overtakes her. She stutters, “Oh, I...I… I didn’t mean to imply that-”

But Katya reaches a long arm out and pulls her closer by Trixie’s small wrist. Trixie moves forward so she doesn’t stumble. 

“You’re a little hard to read, you know that?” Katya says more softly now. 

“Am I?” Trixie breathes. 

Katya nods. “Mmmhmm.” She leans in slow and just barely brushes her lips against Trixie’s. Trixie sighs, closes her eyes. Katya does it again, just a brush, and then leans back. “Date it is.” 

Trixie hears the car unlock and opens her eyes. 

Katya’s cheeks are rosy now, too.

oooo

Katya drives her to Silver Lake, about five miles past the library where Katya works and Haus of Bean. 

“This is your neighborhood,” Trixie says. It’s a question but it isn’t. It’s where the hip artists live, but not the poor ones. Katya must have money. 

“Guilty,” Katya says. But she doesn’t take them to a residential location, she parks on the street outside of a gallery. Katya feeds the meter and then leads Trixie inside. “ _Zdravstvujtye_! Galina?”

A woman comes out of the back and Katya moves to greet her, kissing one cheek and then the other. Trixie knows that Katya is Russian, obviously, but has never heard her speak it. It’s kind of hot. The other woman is paler than Katya - so blonde her hair is almost white. They converse rapidly for a few moments, and then Katya says, “This is Trixie.”

“Galina,” says the woman and shakes her head. “You come to see Katya’s art?”

“This is yours?” Trixie says, looking around. 

“Not all of it, just this wall,” Katya says. Katya’s wall is dominated by huge canvases, nearly floor to ceiling. The work is abstract, dark, dynamic. It’s a little scary but compelling, too. Trixie walks up to one that has a lot of deep blues and purples. The paint is thick on the canvas, she can see big lumps and she wants to touch it, but she doesn’t. 

“I really like it,” Trixie says. “I can’t believe you can do this.”

“Just paint,” Katya says.

“No, come on. Making something out of nothing is amazing.” Trixie smiles softly at her. “You’re amazing.” 

Trixie studies the art while Katya steps out of have a cigarette. Then they walk down to a restaurant and get a table outside, where they can sit on the sidewalk under the awning and watch people and cars go by. Katya orders a jug of lemonade for them to share and they get a variety of appetizers. 

“Where do you paint, do you have a studio?” Trixie asks.

“My apartment has a spare room,” Katya says. “It isn’t always easy with big pieces but I make it work.”

“So what brought you to the library then?” Trixie asks. Katya runs her finger around the lip of her glass of lemonade.

“Getting a part time job was part of my sobriety program,” Katya says and then forces herself to flash a big, beautiful but fake smile. “Surprise, I’m a hot garbage mess!”

Trixie had just figured Katya never drank because she knew Trixie was underage. 

“Hey, everyone has a past,” Trixie says softly. “Getting sober is super hard, that’s awesome you could do that. You must be really strong.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Katya says. “But I like the library. It’s never boring and you get to meet lots of different kinds of people and, and!” She jabs a finger at Trixie. “It’s close to this coffee shop where this really hot girl works.”

“Oh, yeah, Pearl,” Trixie says. And then laughs. 

“Definitely not Pearl,” Katya wheezes. “If I wanted to sleep with someone like Pearl I could just fuck a plank of wood. It would feel the same and be as interesting.”

Trixie laughs but can admit to herself that she’s worried about that part of things. Her lack of experience, her nervousness that she won’t be able to untangle her feelings about intimacy from her fear of her step-dad and the terrible things he’d done to her. 

She must telegraph some part of that across her face because Katya says, “Hey.”

“What?”

“I know that… you haven’t experienced a lot of… this doesn’t have to be about sex. I just like seeing you so it can be just about that, okay?” Katya says.

Trixie nods, does feel a little relieved. “Thanks. I’m just… a late bloomer I guess. I had a weird childhood.” 

“I had a great childhood and I turned into a real whack job, so if anyone here is super strong and awesome, looks like it’s you, mama,” Katya says. 

God, Trixie really likes her.

It’s only later on when they’ve finished their food and their lemonade and Katya has settled the bill, that Trixie yawns. 

“Should I take you home?” Katya asks.

“No, no, I’m okay, just a long week,” Trixie promises. 

“What if we just went back to my place and watched a movie or something,” Katya says. “Something relaxed.”

Trixie finds herself nodding. It sounds nice. To sit down somewhere that isn’t work or her little room. Sitting out in the heat has tired her out more quickly than she thought and the sun has crept past the shade of the awning. She can feel her exposed shoulder starting to burn.

At the car, Katya opens the door for her and Trixie slips in. She’s looking at her shoulder when Katya gets into the car.

“A little red,” Katya comments. She leans over and presses her lips into the hot skin on Trixie’s shoulder. Then she rights herself and starts the car. It’s a testament to her lipstick that she doesn’t leave a single smudge of red behind. 

Katya’s apartment is in an old, old building that looks like it was once a grand home. It’s clearly been converted into smaller units. Katya’s is on the ground floor which means she has a little patio attached. The apartment is lovely - wood floors and arched doorways, but it’s crammed full of things. Oversized furniture, knick knacks on every surface. The walls are covered in framed art and it’s just generally a mess.

“I’d apologize but I don’t really mean it and I’m not going to change so…” Katya trails off waving both hands in the air. “Make yourself at home.”

Most of the light comes from the sliding glass doors across the living room, past the little kitchen. The coffee table is made of dirty glass and the couch looks like it was probably expensive when it was purchased but had seen a lot of hard use. There’s a bed sized pillow and an old blanket on there. Trixie wonders if she’s had an overnight guest, but pushes the thought aside. The patio isn’t huge but it’s big enough for a table and two chairs. The table has an overflowing ashtray and a small dead succulent.

“How do you kill a succulent?” Trixie asks. 

“Literally never water it and blow cigarette smoke into it from time to time, you know, for variety,” Katya says from the kitchen. 

The patio has two big paintings on it - the look different than the ones in the gallery. Still textured and abstract, but not so dark. One of them has a big zig zag of pink through the middle. 

“I like that one,” Trixie says when Katya comes over to hand her a glass of water. 

Katya smiles. “Me too.” Trixie takes the water. 

She has to walk through the bedroom to get to the bathroom. 

“It’s the greatest flaw of this apartment,” Katya calls after her. Something about the way the big house was divided no doubt. Katya’s bed is a queen sized mess with dark gray sheets and one missing pillow. In the bathroom, the counter is littered with makeup but the toilet is clean, at least. Trixie studies the makeup as she pees. It’s old and dirty and well used but it’s pricey stuff. MAC and Urban Decay and Smashbox. It’s not the Maybelline and Revlon that Trixie allows herself. 

Katya has the television on when Trixie comes out. She’s also shoved the pillow and blanket onto a nearby chair.

“Any requests?” Katya asks, pulling up Netflix. 

“Whatever,” Trixie says. “I’m not picky.” 

She sits next to Katya, yawns again but tries to hide it. Katya chooses Clueless. Ten minutes in, Trixie falls asleep. 

oooo

She wakes up to Katya’s fingernails against her scalp and the room is much darker. At some point she must have slumped far enough to get horizontal because her head is in Katya’s lap. Katya’s fingers in her hair is so good. She’d never realized how truly touch starved she was until Katya started touching her. 

When she opens her eyes, she can see the credits rolling. She turns over, looks up at Katya. 

“I missed the whole thing,” Trixie says. “I’m so sorry.” 

Katya just shakes her head. “It’s fine.” 

When Trixie sits up, she realizes her ponytail has come out totally. Katya has her pink hair tie around her wrist. Her hair is big, full of volume from Katya’s fingers. Katya reaches out and touches her face.

“Very pretty, Miss Trixie,” she says. “You’re so…”

She seems to hesitate, unsure of what Trixie is willing to do. But Trixie nods, her heart pounding. She leans in and Katya reaches up, holds her face. Kisses her gently. 

Trixie breathes in sharply when she feels Katya’s tongue against her lips. She opens her mouth and lets Katya in. It’s so different. It’s so soft. Everything about this is so soft and lovely and makes heat curl up low in her tummy. 

Katya pulls back and says, “Okay?”

Trixie nods and leans in again. They bump noses in her enthusiasm but Trixie doesn’t care. She just wants to keep being kissed by Katya. She feels Katya’s fingers on her bare knee and she covers the hand with her own, squeezing tight. She meets Katya’s tongue with her own, tilts her head, squeezes her thighs together when it starts to be too much. 

It’s when Katya’s hand slides up roughly, grabs her waist that Trixie flinches and pulls away. 

“Sorry,” she breathes. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Katya says. “I should’ve asked.” 

It’s just… she doesn’t like to be surprised. And even she doesn’t understand how she can be so touched starved and love being touched by Katya but still feel a jolt of panic when someone touches her so… so… sexually. Well. Maybe she can.

“Um,” Katya says. “You’re all…” She motions to her own lips that are now less than perfect. “Red.”

“Oh,” Trixie says. She reaches for her bag on the floor by the coffee table and digs out some makeup wipes. “You’re not so perfect yourself anymore.” She pulls out a wipe and hands it to Katya who wraps it around one finger and cleans Trixie up with it. And then rubs her own mouth much less carefully, taking swaths of foundation with it. 

“I should take you home,” Katya says softly. “Against my stronger… desires.”

She touches her phone and sees that it’s after eight. “Well. I can’t say it’s late but I do get up at four am, so…”

“So I’ll take you home,” Katya says with a big smile. Her lips are pretty even without the red. She’s pretty. She’s so… Trixie leans in and kisses her one more time. It tastes mostly of makeup remover.

“I had a good time,” Trixie says. “Maybe we do it again sometime?”

“Yeah,” Katya says, wadding the wet wipe up in her hand. “Yes. I mean, yes.”

“...but?” Trixie asks, concerned now.

“Um,” Katya says. “I really like you but I’m not historically… good at relationships? I _am_ good at self-sabotaging and letting people down.”

“Katya-”

“I just don’t want you to go in with expectations that I can’t possibly meet,” Katya says. “I’m a 25-year-old burn out and you’re like the most beautiful, young workaholic I’ve ever met and I just… can see that going…” She makes a crash and burn sound. Her cheeks puff out and she uses her hands to illustrate a bomb going off.

“Hey we don’t have to… I’ve never even done this before,” Trixie says. “Not really. So I don’t have any expectations. We can just see each other sometimes and that’s just… it. No pressure. I could use one thing in my life that’s no pressure, frankly.” 

Katya nods. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Trixie says, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

Katya smokes a cigarette before they go and Trixie tries to tame her hair back but realizes she doesn’t have her hair tie so she just gives up and lets it be wild. In the car, Katya lets Trixie plug in her phone and Trixie plays her playlist of her favorite Dolly songs and Katya doesn’t even complain once. 

Katya kisses her cheek when they arrive at Trixie’s house and says, “See you soon, Barbie.”

Inside the house, the TV is on but it’s Sasha watching it and Trixie makes it upstairs without seeing Michelle or Betty and for that, she is profoundly grateful. 

oooo

Sex is a sticky wicket for Trixie. She’s interested in it, aware of her rapidly blossoming desire to participate in a healthy expression of the act, but it’s also very tied up with violence and fear and pain for her. She worries she won’t ever be able to untangle that knot and that Katya will drift away from her. 

She knows, also, that many girls in her situation swing wildly in the other direction. Have a lot of sex to try to drown out the bad memories. She can’t even survive right. She’s not a fighter. She’s a runner. 

Still, she doesn’t want to run from Katya. She’s not sure quite yet if Katya wants to run from her or not but she shows up Monday morning to Haus of Bean exhausted because she’d tossed and turned all night thinking about Katya’s lips. 

She’s opening with Adore today, Adore’s first regular open.

“Fucking fuckity fuckballs it is early,” she says when she rolls in at five, whiny but on time.

“Yeah, mornings are not for talking,” Trixie says. “I do all the hard stuff before you get here, you can put away the pastries.” 

“Oookay,” Adore says. 

“What?” Trixie snaps. 

“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed much?” Adore says, pulling out the trays for the pastry order.

“I’m sorry,” Trixie says. “I’m just tired. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“Up late partying on a Sunday?” Adore asks. Trixie turns back to the milk she’s stocking and crouches down to unload the crate of cartons into the fridge.

“I had a date,” she mutters. 

“No shit?” Adore says. “Oh wait, with the weird, yet hot, library girl?”

Trixie turns around so fast that she almost topples herself. “Who told you about her?”

“Um, Pearl,” Adore says. “Was it a secret?”

“I guess not,” Trixie says. 

“Did it bomb?” Adore asks. 

“No,” Trixie says. “It was… really nice.” She stands and the door closes with a soft _thwap_. “I just… part of the reason I got taken away from my family was my step-dad… he’s the only one who has ever… I haven’t ever dated anyone before.” She stares into the empty crate as she admits this. She’d usually never tell anyone, especially someone she doesn’t know well but Adore is foster like her. It’s different. 

“Shit,” Adore says. “I’m sorry, that really sucks.”

“It’s whatever,” Trixie says. “I just don’t want to like… do a bad job, I guess.”

“Did you tell her?” Adore asks. 

Trixie shakes her head. “It’s embarrassing,” Trixie says.

“No, it isn’t,” Adore says. “I promise you. No one is going to think any of it was your fault. Especially not someone who knows or likes you.” 

“Thanks,” Trixie says. She looks at the time and says, “Oh shit, we gotta hurry up.”

Mondays are always busy. Everyone struggles to get back into the groove of the work week and comes in slightly grumpy. When Raja comes in, Trixie asks her about unloading some shifts onto Adore and Raja brushes her off saying not until the next week. Trixie isn’t a complainer and she’s a hard worker but she’s so tired today that something inside her snaps and she feels like she’s gonna cry. 

She takes her ten minute break out behind the building, standing next to the dumpster and crying into a paper towel so her face doesn’t end up streaked with mascara. It’s Pearl who comes out to find her. She lets the heavy door fall shut and comes to lean on the wall beside Trixie. 

“Do you ever just feel… like a total fucking disaster?” Trixie asks, sniffing and dabbing at her face. The paper towel is smudged with black and beige. “Like a big fuck up?”

“Do I? Yeah, dude. All the time,” Pearl says. “You’re the most put together person I know. If you’re a fuck up what would that make me?”

“I’m not that put together,” Trixie sniffs. “I’m always tired and I’m scared _all_ the time and I’ve suddenly found myself very out of my depth.”

“Hot library girl?” Pearl asks. 

Trixie can’t even be mad. Just nods.

“Did you not know you were gay or something?” Pearl asks. 

She considers how to respond. She’s always liked girls, found them pretty and fascinating but she worries that she likes women so much only because she loathes men. She could tell Pearl it’s because she’s a virgin, except she isn’t exactly. She could tell Pearl the truth. 

No, she can’t. 

“I knew,” Trixie says. “I’ve just never actively participated in my… queerness.”

“Ah,” Pearl says. 

“And I have no idea what I’m doing and I have no life plan past, like basic survival and…” She wells up again, starts crying afresh. 

“Oh, I am not equipped for this, hang on,” Pearl says and goes back inside. Trixie tries to get her crying under control but she feels like now that she’s broken the seal of tears, she can’t quite figure out how to stopper it back up again. The door opens again and this time Raja comes out. 

“Pearl said you weren’t feeling - oh!” She says, letting the door close. “Trixie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Trixie sobs. 

Raja opens her arms and says, “Come here.” 

It does feel good to cry against someone vaguely maternal. She tries to remember the last time her mother held her as she cried. She must have been ten or eleven. Much past that, her mom didn’t have time for tears. Trixie needed to be more responsible, she needed to help raise the little ones, she needed to atone for her sins, she need to be a more perfect daughter.

Trixie can’t breathe.

She can’t breathe in. She keeps trying but it feels like all she can do is choke and now her vision is starting to go fuzzy. She can distantly feel Raja pull back and say her name, but all she can do is feel fear rising up, threatening to cover her completely. Pour into her ears and her mouth and her lungs. Her legs wobble and give and she’s sliding down the concrete wall. 

She tries to tell Raja she can’t breath but her whole face feels numb and cold and it’s so bright. She puts her face into her arms. 

She’d run if she could, try to outrun whatever that blackness on the edge of her vision is, how it’s creeping towards her. Long minutes drag into days and then years. Her whole life suspended inside this terrible, painful moment.

oooo

She feels hands on her arms. 

She hears her name.

“Trixie?” 

She can’t look up.

“Beatrix, just take one breath. You’re okay. You’re safe. Listen to me breathe and then match my breaths, okay?” 

She hears an inhalation and she tries to breathe. 

She blows when they blow.

In and out. In and out. The oxygen flooding her bloodstream makes everything recede a little and when she raises her head, she sees that it’s Katya. 

“You’re safe,” Katya says. “You’re okay. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

“W-what are you…” It’s all Trixie can manage. 

“I came to get coffee,” Katya says. Trixie can see she’s still wearing her red coat, that her beat up brown bag is on the ground next to them.

Above them, a few feet away like they’d been shoved back, are Raja and Pearl looking very concerned indeed. 

“I’m… oh my god, I’m sorry,” Trixie says. She can feel the balled up, wet paper towel in her clenched fist. “I couldn’t breathe.”

“You had a panic attack,” Katya says. “Do you get those a lot?”

Trixie opens her mouth, doesn’t know what to say. She hasn’t had once since she left Wisconsin, but she’d rather not admit to having them at all.

“Never mind,” Katya says. “Let’s try to stand up.” 

She still feels a little shaky but Katya pulls her up - Katya is surprisingly strong - and she finds she can stand on her own two legs. 

“Trixie why don’t you go home,” Raja says.

“Yeah, I’ll finish your shift,” Pearl says. 

It’s a real testament to how bad she feels that she just agrees. Everyone goes back in through the back door, even Katya. Trixie realizes that Pearl must have seen her come in, pulled her around the bar and through the staff area to get to Trixie. 

Mortification is starting to sink in now and even though she’s calming down, her cheeks stay bright red. She grabs her bag. 

“I’m just…” She points to the staff bathroom. Katya follows her in and locks the door. When Trixie looks in the mirror, it’s not great. “Oh wow.”

“You still have makeup wipes in there?” Katya asks. Trixie nods, pulls out the package. “May as well take it all off, you’ll feel better.” 

So she does. She wipes away what’s left of her eye makeup, her blush, rubs all over to take away the foundation. Underneath is just Trixie, red and swollen. She knows she looks younger. Katya’s never seen her without makeup before. 

Katya smiles at her in the mirror as she tosses the wipe into the trash and washes her hands.

“You have freckles,” Katya says. “I like them.” 

“Thanks,” Trixie whispers. 

“I’m going to drive you home, okay?” Katya says. 

“No, you have to work and I have my bike.”

“Your bike will fit in my car and I have an hour,” Katya says. “Please let me.”

Trixie nods. 

When they emerge, Raja says, “I clocked you out, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow, but if you want me to try to fill the shift-”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Trixie says. Katya’s mouth is a hard line but she says nothing. Outside, Trixie unlocks her pink beach cruiser, but Katya insists on being the one to walk it towards the library. “Thank you,” Trixie says. “You didn’t have to… that wasn’t me at my best, but you really helped me calm down.”

“I’m honestly not surprised,” Katya says. “Your schedule is unsustainable. You need regular days off and more sleep and just… more fun in your life.” 

Trixie’s life has never been about fun. Maybe Adore is right. Maybe Trixie should be more honest with Katya about where she’s coming from. Still, she says nothing.

“I know a thing or two about panic attacks,” Katya says, regardless of Trixie’s silence. “You’re looking at the owner of her very own anxiety disorder.” 

“Really?” Trixie asks. “You always seem so… good. So free.”

“Trixie, I will get addicted to anything, and it’s not freeing,” Katya says. “Alcohol or drugs or Xanax or people. Half the time I think I’m addicted to the anxiety.”

“Or running away,” Trixie says faintly. “Is that a thing you can get addicted to?”

“Yeah,” Katya says. “Absolutely you can.” She reaches out to hold Trixie’s hand, but it’s too hard to walk the bike at the same time, so she just hangs on for a second and then lets go. 

Katya’s car is in the library parking lot and they have to fold the back seats down to fit the bicycle in the trunk, but it works. When Trixie climbs into the passenger seat, she feels wrung out. She still has to work a dinner shift at the A&D. It seems insurmountable. She’ll get an extra few hours of sleep and maybe feel better. Hopefully. 

When Katya gets in, she sticks the key in the ignition but Trixie reaches out and touches her arm to stop her from turning the engine over. She has to do this now, right now, before she’s strong enough to stop herself again.

“When I was fifteen, my step-dad, who had always hit us, started raping me too. I told my school counselor and the state took me away and when I turned 18, I aged out of the foster system, so I came to California because it seemed warm and far enough away. If I work really hard, if I’m _always_ busy, it’s easier not to think about that. When I slow down, I can feel that life just… breathing down the back of my neck.”

Trixie says all of this into her lap, into the skin of Katya’s arm where her fingers are lightly gripping. When she looks up, Katya looks a little bit horrified. 

God, this has been nice. Getting to know Katya even for this little tiny bit of time has been so, so nice. And while it will be hard to lose her, to watch her put distance between them, at least she’s learned a valuable lesson. It’s just better for her - better for everyone - if she’s alone.

“I can’t believe that you’re the prettiest _and_ the strongest _and_ the bravest person I know,” Katya says.

Trixie looks at her in surprise. 

“Telling your counselor must have been so hard, leaving even harder. You’re amazing, you really are.” Katya looks sincere enough, anyway.

“I’m not,” Trixie promises her. “I left two little brothers and a little sister behind. I’m selfish, if anything. I’m horrible.” 

She wells up again.

“Okay, well, agree to disagree,” Katya says. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m gonna take you home and then, maybe tomorrow, we’re going to figure out how to get you into some therapy.”

“What?” Trixie says.

“Therapy is amazing,” Katya promises. “Everyone should do it.”

“I can’t afford-”

“We’ll figure it out,” Katya promises as she turns on the car. “You and me.” 

oooo

Trixie gives back the brunch shift and turns her Saturday double into a single bar shift with Violet and it makes the A&D much more manageable. And when she asks again about giving Adore her extra Haus of Bean shifts, Raja doesn’t brush her off again. It means she only has three days a week where she works both jobs and Sundays off all together. Having a day off to look forward to really makes a difference and it helps, too, that the library is closed on Sundays so she can see Katya. 

It’s Katya who finds her new therapist for her, also through the Child Welfare Office’s transitional services department. Katya comes over one Sunday with a manila folder full of information and therapists who will partner with the state to offer people like Trixie a sliding scale. 

“How did you find all of this?” Trixie asks, impressed. 

“I work at the library,” Katya says. “Have you ever asked a bored librarian a real reference question? They were tripping all over themselves to help me find this stuff.” 

“Thank you,” Trixie says, and leans in to kiss her cheek. 

She also has started to go to a Sunday morning yoga class with Katya. Katya had bought her a pink yoga mat and taken her shopping for exercise clothes. 

Katya had also starting sharing more about her family - wealthy as predicted and helping her financially. As long as she stays clean, anyway, but Katya had said that doing drugs meant all the good things in her life would go away and she didn’t want to stop seeing Trixie. 

It’s good to feel like they’re helping each other. 

Trixie is not good at yoga. She feels top heavy, she feels like her own boobs are always smacking her in the face and she’s shit at balance of any kind. She almost wants to put her mat on the opposite side of the room from Katya because Katya, as it turns out, is a fucking human rubber band. She can stand on her head, she can do back bends, she can leap into the air and _land_ in the splits. It’s obscene.

And obscenely hot. 

Trixie endures being constantly humiliated by her lack of flexibility to stand next to Katya because sometimes when she’s struggling, Katya will step off of her mat and come over to correct Trixie. Trixie likes to feel her hands on her lower back or her shoulder. Katya is gentle and will sometimes lean in and kiss Trixie. 

The studio has offered to send Katya on a week long training to become certified as a teacher for them, and it’s something she’s considering. 

“A girl can’t shelve books forever.” 

It makes Trixie really proud of her. 

Trixie’s new therapist is close enough that she can ride her pink bicycle to the office and she only charges Trixie twenty-five dollars a visit, which is affordable. Her name is Courtney and she’s really pretty but just old enough that Trixie doesn’t find it distracting. She’s got a lilting accent and is just so nice when Trixie comes in for her preliminary visit. 

“I just don’t want to waste anyone’s time,” Trixie had said nervously, worrying the hem of her pink skirt. 

“The people who really benefit from therapy are always the people who think they don’t deserve it,” Courtney had said. 

So now Trixie sees Courtney on Thursday mornings, pays for her visit in cash from her tips from the night before. Trixie isn’t ready to talk about everything. She feels like she has to work up to the really hard stuff, so for the first few weeks, they talk mostly about Trixie’s life now. Her work being sometimes overwhelming and rarely fulfilling. How she doesn’t want to work in food service for her whole life but how she feels stuck because she barely made it out of high school and feels totally unsuited for college. 

“I don’t think college is a goal beyond your reach,” Courtney says. “But it’s also not for everyone. But there are other paths. A vocational school, perhaps.”

“What, like being a mechanic?” Trixie asks.

“Sure,” Courtney says. “If that’s where your interest lies. Is it?”

“No,” Trixie says.

“Well, then what do you like to do when you aren’t working? Do you have hobbies?”

“I go to yoga with Katya,” she says. It’s all she can come up with. 

“You seem pretty talented at doing makeup,” Courtney says. “Cosmetology is a perfectly valid trade, especially in this town.” 

“I’ve never done makeup on another person before,” she says. 

“Try it out,” Courtney tells her. “Maybe on your friend Katya?”

She and Katya are just friends. It’s what she’s described to Courtney and what they tell each other. It’s fine because Trixie is happy to spend time with Katya no matter what happens and Katya is spooked at the thought of being in any sort of concrete relationship. Trixie doesn’t feel like she’s girlfriend material either, frankly. She’s pretty much always busy and knows that she’s damaged. Not on the outside, anymore, but deep down. Under the curly hair and fair skin, under the Maybelline and pink dresses and white tennis shoes, under the workaholic and ideal tennent, underneath all of that is a little girl in a cage, rattling the hell out of the bars. 

Trixie worries what will happen if she gets free.

They may not be dating, but Trixie spends more and more time kissing Katya. Katya never does anything without asking anymore. She asks before she puts her hand up Trixie’s blouse, asks before she pulls Trixie onto her lap. Asks before she takes Trixie’s hand and pulls it to her own breast. 

They stop, though. They only ever get so far. It’s a kindness on Katya’s part, Trixie thinks, even though she’s always equal parts frustrated and relieved. 

Trixie works an opening shift at Haus of Bean on the 4th of July and then spends the rest of the day with Katya. Katya has the whole day off, spends it sleeping in and then collects Trixie and her bicycle. She lets Trixie nap on the sofa while she spends time in the kitchen, making a fruit salad. Michelle is having a barbecue at the house and had specifically asked Trixie to invite Katya. 

Katya usually spends holidays alone, it seems. Except for Christmas. She flies to Boston for that. 

Parties make Katya anxious so Trixie is surprised she had agree to come. 

“You’ll be there, right?” Katya had said. “I’ll be fine if I’m with you.” 

It’s, like, the most beautiful fruit salad that Trixie has ever seen. Katya had spent an hour hollowing out a watermelon and then carving an intricate pattern into the rind with a small, sharp knife. Had filled it with a colorful variety of fruit and it’s more art than anything else. Trixie watches her set it into a plastic cooler lined with ice packs. 

It’s definitely the star of the show when they arrive. Michelle coos over it, snaps pictures of it and puts it onto her social media. Asks to tag Katya and then follows her which Trixie thinks is pretty sly. Trixie doesn’t use social media because she doesn’t want to be found, but Katya’s instagram is full of her art and Trixie likes to look at it when she can. 

As the sun starts to set, one of Michelle’s work friends, a kooky redhead who looks like she arrived on a broom by way of a swamp, arrives with a bag of organic pita chips and a guitar case. She’s immediately charming and the center of the party which is comprised of mostly Michelle’s adult friends and their small children and the girls who live at the house and their friends. Betty is here with her friend Cynthia, Kim has brought along her work friend Naomi. Sasha has brought her boyfriend, a tall handsome Russian model. He and Katya chat for several minutes in Russian. 

“Jinkxy, play us a song,” Michelle requests, already a little toasted on whatever is in the punch bowl that both Trixie and Katya have been avoiding. They both have bottled water and Trixie can tell Katya is getting overwhelmed because she’s twisting her empty bottle, the plastic crinkling as it loses shape. 

“Come on, let’s go upstairs for awhile,” Trixie says into her ear. It’s easy to slip away; there are so many people no one pays them any attention. In her bedroom, Trixie can hear the music floating up through the open window. Katya crawls onto her bed and Trixie follows suit, kicking off her shoes. She curls up behind Katya, holding her close. Katya’s rapid breathing slowly starts to even out. Trixie snakes her arm around, holds on tight.

oooo

After the fireworks, which they can all sort of see from the house, most people disappear. Families go home, friends leave, Kim and Sasha go upstairs and Betty goes off to wherever it is that Betty goes when she’s not here. The only people that remain are Michelle, Trixie, Katya, and Jinkx all seated around the little cast iron fire pit that’s burning in the yard. Jinkx is still strumming her guitar, an old beat up Fender. The kind of beginner guitar that someone brings out at parties but doesn’t belong to a real musician. Someone who tours or plays for a living. Jinkx is proficient enough but she’s no prodigy.

“Do you want to play?” Jinkx asks, breaking Trixie out of her trance.

“Huh?” she says.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” Jinkx says. “It seems like maybe you play.”

In fact, Trixie can. Not well, probably, at least not anymore. Her grandfather had given her lessons for years when she was a little girl. They’d stopped when he’d passed away when she was ten. He’d had a lot of grandchildren and he’d given many of them lessons and so the guitar had gone to an older male cousin. Trixie had asked her mother for her own guitar, maybe for her birthday or Christmas but there had hardly been enough money to keep the phones on and keep everyone fed.

And now, on her own, it has always seemed like a luxury to buy something for herself, especially since it has been so long. 

“Um,” she says. “I used to. When I was little.”

Katya sits up at this. She’s wearing one of Trixie’s hoodies, a light grey one with the Haus of Bean logo on it. She’s swimming in it, it’s very cute. 

“Really?” she says. 

“Here,” Jinkx says and extends the guitar to her. “Like riding a bicycle.”

It’s not quite that easy. The guitar in her hands seems much smaller than the one in her memory, but she knows it’s because she’s bigger. She strums each string and then tunes it up a little - that’s been bothering her all night. She fingers a few chords, making sure she remembers them. Does a few progressions and it takes some adjusting but then she does remember more than she thought she would. Enough to do a basic three-chord melody. 

“Trixie, you have hidden depths,” Michelle says. 

“Do you sing, too?” Jinkx asks. 

Trixie colors, dips her head. It’s enough of an answer for Jinkx to whoop in the night air. 

“Sing something!” Jinkx demands. 

“Um,” Trixie says.

“You don’t have to,” Katya whispers, nervous on her behalf. 

But Trixie knows she can. She knows she has it in her. And she thinks about how much work it was to calm Katya down after the overwhelming party, thinks about how if she sings something, Katya might relax because she’ll know that Trixie isn’t feeling scared. 

She thinks for a moment and then starts playing. 

“ _Your beauty is beyond compare, with flaming locks of auburn hair, with ivory skin and eyes of emerald green - your smile is like a breath of spring, your voice is soft like summer rain, and I cannot compete with you, Jolene._ ” 

Well, she doesn’t sound like Dolly Parton but her voice is all right. Katya has gone from slouched to sitting up to ramrod straight at the sound of Trixie singing. 

Michelle even joins in on the chorus. She sings harmony and she has a great voice, too. 

That’s all Trixie does, a verse and a chorus before slapping her palm flat against the strings and shaking her head. She hands the guitar back.

“That was really lovely,” Jinkx says. “I hope you play more often.” 

“Just a hobby,” Trixie says dismissively. But she keeps it in her pocket, anyway, to tell Courtney at their next session. She couldn’t hardly think of one thing interesting about herself or how she felt at their last session and now, at least, she has something to share. 

It’s not an ultimate life goal or anything but it’s _something_ , and at this point something at all feels like a solid win.

Katya reaches out and snags Trixie’s fingers.

“Katya, why don’t you spend the night?” Michelle says. “We’re cooking a big breakfast in the morning.”

Katya looks at Trixie and says, “You don’t have to work?”

“Not until four,” Trixie says. “You should.”

Katya nods slowly. “Okay. Thanks.” 

“Never too old for a slumber party,” Michelle says, winking at Trixie. “Especially if you never got them as a kid.” 

They sit out until the fire dies down and then Trixie and Katya go up to bed feeling tired and full and smelling like campfire. They take turns in the bathroom, washing their faces and Trixie lets Katya use her toothbrush. Katya without makeup is a rare sight, too, and she’s even more pale under her ivory foundation. Trixie can see the blue green of a vein running along her temple. 

“Do you want something to sleep in?” Trixie asks. 

Katya shakes her head no. Trixie feels a warm flush spread through her. She reaches for the hem of her own sweater and t-shirt and pulls up, stripping both garments off at once. Her bra is white, lacy, more for show than support, honestly. Katya follows suit, squirming out of the borrowed sweatshirt and then pulling her black tank top off and dropping it to the floor. She’s got on a black bralette - she doesn’t even need an underwire. 

Trixie undoes the buttons of her shorts and pushes them down over her wide hips. She’s got pink panties on with a pattern of little white hearts. 

Katya undoes the button and zipper of her denim skirt and shoves it down too. She’s wearing little black boyshort briefs. Her stomach is so flat, Trixie can see the developed muscles there from yoga. She reaches out to touch it before her brain gives her hand permission. 

But Katya allows it, allows Trixie’s cool fingers to draw patterns and then slide to her waist and pull her in. 

They kiss for long, dizzying seconds all wet heat and groping before Katya wrenches herself away and asks, “Is this okay?”

“Good,” Trixie says, pressing their mouths back together. “So good,” she says into Katya’s mouth. “Don’t stop.”

She smacks at the wall and turns off the lightswitch as they stumble into bed. 

Katya checks in the whole way through. When she wants to undo the clasp on Trixie’s bra, when she wants to wrap her lips around Trixie’s nipple. When her fingers graze the elastic waist of Trixie’s underpants.

Trixie gives a green light every time. She gasps into Katya’s neck when Katya’s fingers slip past the elastic and graze against where she’s gotten so wet. But it’s Katya who moans like she’s being touched instead of doing the touching. Like it’s just as good for her. 

Trixie feels paralyzed with equal parts inexperience and desire. Can do nothing more than let Katya touch her. 

“Tell me to stop at any point,” Katya says. “I’ll stop, I promise.”

Trixie nods but pushes her hips into Katya’s hand. Katya drags a finger through the wetness, moves higher and feels around until Trixie jerks and gasps. Rubs gentle circles until Trixie makes a noise of frustration and then adds pressure. 

“Off, off,” Trixie says, pushing at her ruined underwear impatiently. Katya helps her get rid of them, drops them to the ground. 

“Can I… do you want me inside?” Katya asks, her voice barely more than a hot whisper in Trixie’s ear. 

She’s not sure about that honestly. Even if it feels good, even if Katya does everything exactly right, she’s still not… the idea of being penetrated by anything is…

“Could you… could you use your mouth?” Trixie asks. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, yes, yes,” Katya says, and kisses her. Her lips, her neck, the soft valley between her breasts, the skin underneath her belly button. Katya’s hands are hot and gentle as they coax Trixie’s knees apart to make space. Katya doesn’t tease, she dives right in. 

Trixie has never felt anything quite like it. It’s not at all like fingers. It’s hot and slippery and Trixie has to put her arm over her mouth to stop herself from crying out. She bites into her own skin when Katya tongues her clit, sucks at it, scrapes it gently with the underside of her teeth. 

It doesn’t happen right away, Katya is down there for awhile but she seems to be enjoying herself just as much as Trixie is. And Trixie is enjoying herself immensely. But it just feels really, really good until all of a sudden she something coils tight and then springs. 

She’s gasping, thrusting hard onto Katya’s face, coming harder than she’s ever come against her own fingers. 

When it’s over, Katya kisses the inside of her thigh very sweetly. Looks up at Trixie grinning - Trixie can see her white teeth gleaming in the light that comes in from the window. 

“Um,” Trixie says. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep,” Trixie says, and giggles. It’s a relief in a way. A big one, to have this hurdle jumped and behind them, to live to see the other side and be better for it. Trixie pulls at her until Katya comes up to her level. Trixie wraps her arms around her hugs her hard. Katya hugs her back, hums into her cheek. “Katya?”

“Hmm?” Katya says.

“Will you… show me what you like?” Trixie asks. 

So that’s what Katya does. She pulls Trixie’s hand to her, covers it with her own. Sinks down on Trixie’s fingers while she touches herself and rocks against her hand until she comes apart and she’s so beautiful and ethereal and delicate as she collapses. Her skin is hot and sweaty against Trixie as she pants into her hair. 

Trixie kisses her and kisses her until they get too drowsy to keep going and they fall asleep.

oooo

Trixie isn’t sad to leave her teen years behind. She welcomes each birthday like time is its own kind of distance, like every year is another mile farther away from Wisconsin. She takes three days off of work - of _both_ jobs and she and Katya drive up to Big Bear. Katya’s rented a cabin for them to stay in. There’s plenty to do during the summer up the mountain but the cabin is secluded and Trixie just wants the quiet and the trees. She doesn’t miss Wisconsin but she misses the country, she misses not living in the city. 

When they arrive, Katya says, “I know your birthday is tomorrow but I think you should open your gift now.” 

She brings it in from the trunk and the box is huge. No wonder Katya wouldn’t let her pack the car. 

When she tears off the paper (pink Barbie wrapping, she loves it), inside is a pink acoustic guitar. 

“Katya!” Trixie says. “It’s too much. This and the cabin? It’s too much.” And then she starts to cry. 

It’s one of the things she works on with Courtney - trying to feel like she is deserving of good things. That she deserves to be loved. But she’s not very good at it yet. 

Katya just holds her face, kisses her forehead, her wet cheeks. “It’s not too much,” Katya says. “It’s not too much. It’s not enough, Trixie.” 

It’s not a high end guitar, Katya had gone for aesthetic over quality, but it’s still perfect and once Trixie calms down enough to open it and tune it up, she falls right in love. 

Katya hadn’t understood the draw of a cabin in the middle of nowhere until she was stretched out on the couch listening to Trixie strum and sing softly, finding her way around the instrument. And when Trixie gets tired, when her fingers need a rest, she sets the instrument down like it’s precious and crawls onto the sofa with Katya, pressing their bodies together so they both fit. 

“Katya,” Trixie says. 

“Hmm?”

She wants to tell Katya that she loves her, that she’s in love with her, but she won’t do it because it would be too much for Katya to hear. It would spook her, maybe. Katya is great at reminding Trixie that she deserves good things but not so great at hearing it herself. 

So instead she just thinks it really hard. 

_I love you, I love you, I love you_

And hopes that Katya can feel it. 

“Never mind,” she says. Kisses Katya’s cheek and snuggles closer. 


End file.
